Blurred

The silence deafens and it’s the silence that kills. You don’t want to speak and maybe I’m afraid of what you’d have to say. It falls apart in any case. Even after all these years. Every time I think we’ve grown a little closer, I see all we’ve grown is a tumour. Taking over. Pushing us apart. I suppose I saw it coming from the beginning. But I feel loathsome to admit it. To accept it. To call it what it is.

Impossible.

I feel a kinship. You feel nothing but a desire to get what you want, without ever having to give much in return. I say it feels like a comfort, then I begin to realise it’s a slow suffocation. I give you my body, just to keep you warm. Just to keep you going. You give me the run around and then complain when I speak up. Can’t understand why it is that I’m saying I’m cold, begging for a corner of the cloth. A scrap of your affection. The kind you only give to me when there’s no one better to give it to.

I have become a blurred image, where once I was clear.

I start to wonder if I’m asking too much. Am I not worthy of your loyalty. Of your honesty. Of a postcard from a spot beside the sea. You laugh when I ask, as if I am ridiculous to even imagine that I, foolish little me, should think myself of any real importance to you. You have other lovers for that. Other friends you touch and fuck. Others who you lavish your gifts upon. Whose words and talents you applaud.

Who am I but a phone call when you’re anxious. When you’re bored. When you need something.

I am the giver not the receiver. I come when you call. Run when you are in need. Sit in silence and soak in your sadness. Your stress. Offer my support. My kindness. My insight. My rocks. My magic. My patience. My endless forgiveness. And you offer me…Very little of substance. Empty words. Empty promises. Tall tales. Your time on your terms. But never a move out of your comfort zone. Never a crossing of the street. Never anything substantial. Never anything really real.

Yet, when I point this out, you become indignant.

How dare I become angry at the inequality. How dare I become angry at all. You promised me nothing. Spoke only of love and our future when you weren’t in your body. In your mind. Laugh it off. Don’t I know you better by now. Know better than to take you seriously. Than to think that you would take me seriously at all. Who am I but a blurred line. One which you like to poke and prod when you get lazy of the work it takes to pick a side.

You want to keep things light. To keep things simple.

You make your art. A poor reflection of your own emptiness. You wrap your sheets around the naked forms of those who’ll fill the void. Photograph them for posterity. Lest you forget, that someone once cared enough to lay beside you. To desire you. To think you worthy of their time. Knowing full well you will never have enough film to convince yourself of that.

And we all know that my demands for something more, require too much from you. Because this weight. This heaviness which hangs around my neck. That pulls at all the pieces. Is too much for you to bear. The darkness causing nightmares from which you can’t awake. So you ignore it altogether. Playing house. Playing pretend. Playing happy. With those whom you know are pretending too.

Now I choose to lay beside myself. In the emptiness of a room that somehow feels fuller than when you were ever in it. With your avoidance. Of anything that sits remotely below the surface. Your great fear of wading out of your depth. Not realising you’re already drowning in the shallow end.